


Desperation

by Darkhorse



Category: Foyle's War
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Episode: Bad Blood, F/M, Gen, WWII, anthrax - Freeform, much poetry, worrying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-21
Updated: 2020-07-21
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:00:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25428805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darkhorse/pseuds/Darkhorse
Summary: An Alternate version of "Bad Blood" if Andrew and Sam were still together. A sequel to my 'Invitation'. In which there is a lot of desperation, and nearly as much poetry.
Relationships: Andrew Foyle/Sam Stewart
Comments: 6
Kudos: 18





	Desperation

**Author's Note:**

> This fic has been slightly altered, canon-corrected, and much tidied from the version that went up last night. My thanks to Pauline Dorchester for the gentle steady-up to proofread properly.
> 
> A retelling of part of Bad Blood, but in a circumstance where Andrew and Sam are still walking out together, after a fashion. My first, slighly chaotic attempt at writing Andrew as a POV lead.

The ring of the phone at the other end seemed interminable, then a dull voice spoke “Hastings Police.”

“Is Detective Chief Superintendent Foyle there, please?”

“I'm afraid not Sir, he's out at the moment. I can take a message to pass on to him or I could put you through to Sargent Milner, if you'd prefer. What is this regarding?”

“It's his son, calling from Debden, I just wanted to let him know I've got some leave coming up in a fortnight, long enough that I should be able to get down to Hastings.” Andrew took a slightly steadying breath, “And if you would, pass on the same message and my regards to Miss Stewart, his driver.”

“I will certainly do that Sir, I'm sure it will cheer her up” When did Sam ever need cheering up? She was the bottle of jollity at the station according to what he knew and his father said. There was something in the tone that rang alarm bells in Andrew's head, the evasiveness of a cadet who didn't want you to know that they'd battered their aircraft and accounted it as a 'minor scraping’.

“Is Sam alright?” There was a pause on the end of the line, the sort of pause of a man who suddenly realised he'd said too much. “Answer me, Constable!”

There was a momentary mumbling in the background of the receiver before the constable returned “I've found Sargent Milner for you Sir.” A rustling as the phone passed between hands.

“Andrew, can I help you?”

 _Too calm, too soothing_ “Answer the question, Milner. What's happened to Sam? Is she alright?” He knew he was losing his temper, possibly making a spectacle of himself in front of anyone nearby.

“No, Andrew, she isn't. She didn't turn up for work this morning and then admitted herself to hospital. Some kind of respiratory infection as far as we know. Your father is at St Mary's with her now.” There was a long breath “I shouldn't be telling you all this.”

“It's alright Milner, I'll take the blame with my father.” He took a breath “Thank you, Milner.”

He put the phone back on its cradle, dimly aware of the sharp pace of his breath in his chest, a slight quiver in his hands.

He started to march, then broke into a run as soon as he was outside of the building, heading back to the officers’ lodgings on the other side of the concrete. Out of the corner of his eye he saw ground crew by the hangers, working on three of the Mark IXs. He slowed his pace just enough that he would not burst in the door of the hut, instead opening it with what he hoped was a calm breath.

* * *

Three other men were lounged about in the cane chairs in the room; one reading the paper, two making a desolutery draughts match at one of the tables.

“Hello Foyle.” By chance it was the newspaper-reader who hailed him. Exactly who he had come to see.

He managed an apparently normal nod “Johns... You're down to fly escort for Jamison and Bennet to Hastings this afternoon aren't you?”

John’s voice was almost bored, coming from behind the paper, “Then bring one of the old Fives back in the Morning.”

“Would you swap? Let me take Bennet and Jamison?”

Johns' head lifted carefully and he folded the paper over in half horizontally, “And what should I swap it for?”

“My slot in the leave rota, which is a three day pass. That's enough time to get back and see your Bess.”

He saw a considering look appearing on the other Flight Lt's face “It is...”

“...And my next month's cigarette ration.”

 _Please, please say yes_. His throat felt tight, he forced his breathing to stay as calm as he could make it, as if this was just a general bargain to change flights.

“You're sure?” Johns stood up, setting the paper down on the chair

“Yes.”

Johns held out his hand and they shook. “It's a deal then, it makes more sense anyway, you trained them the most, have a better grasp of them.” Then he looked around at the hut, “I'll head along and square it with the Commander, you'd better start getting your leave kit together, Foyle, wouldn't want you letting the establishment down in Hastings.”

Somehow he managed a lopsided smile at the old quip, the rivalry between stations “As if I would.”

* * *

Once Foyle had walked back out , door shut behind him and he’d been seen walking along the concrete to his sleeping billet, Edward Johns turned to his fellow Flight Lts “Wonder what's got to Foyle? He was whiter than a sheet for all his calm voice.”

“Not as sharp on the uptake either, he'd never have given an old chimney like you the cigarettes normally.” Griffiths remark was dry as he considered the chequered board in front of him.

“No... I hope he's alright to fly those two fledglings down to Hastings.”

“You want to try stopping him?... Hasn't he got his family down there somewhere, and that pretty MTC girl he's a picture of in his wallet?”

Johns watched the retreating figure striding along the ground, back stiff. But there had been something in the back of Foyle’s eyes “Hmm... I hope to God it's not bad news from home.”

“Why give up his long leave if it was, he'd be over there asking for compassionate surely?”

“True” John’s shrugged, turning away from the window “And I'm the last one who should be complaining about it, three days out of turn and double cigarettes next month.” He sprang back to the chair, leaping in to sit crossways, with his legs dangling over the arm. “A good day all round”

* * *

Andrew watched from the far end of the runway as first Jamison, then Bennett roared up into the sky, textbook take-offs. The Mark IX was nearly as beautiful as his old Spit, slightly longer, far sleeker and deadlier. He signalled the chocks away, clicked the engine. The motor caught, the rotor spun faster and faster as he gave it more power. Then they were lumbering along the grass runway, leaping and soaring into the sky. Oh she was fast, so beautifully fast. He touched the stick and she turned, curving around the air field once. As sweet to handle as her siblings had been before her, but even slicker in the air. No wonder all the Eagle boys had been standing there eyeing them up in the hanger.

He spoke into the microphone in his mask

“Alright you two nestlings, form up on me heading, due south”

“Coming in, Leader” That was Bennet, who had gone for another circuit, followed by “Roger, Leader” from Jamison

“Now this is a transfer flight, but keep your heads turning all about. We never know what Jerry's got about, especially near the coast. If you spot something nasty, sing out.”

The dual chorus of “Roger,” came in answer.

It should have been wonderful to fly properly again, not just as a trainer in short stints, drilling the cadets, displaying manoeuvres over and over. But to actually have an aircraft he could stretch out and really use. And it was, wonderful to be soaring so high above the English summer, seeing the fields and the downs roll past below him. With a Spit on each wing, it was almost like the old patrol days at Hastings. But any sense of enjoyment was distant, somewhere in the back of his mind. This flight was a means to an end, not a part of his life He simply wanted to see the landmarks for Hastings, put down on the old grass strip and get to St Mary's. There was the report to make to Wing Commander Turner, both on this flight and the accounts of Bennet and Jamison as flyers, expected protocol that made his jaw set. Oh, it was important, but _Sam..._

Sam would never miss work, she loved it, although she always wanted to do more, be more use than his Father would let her. And there had been that half hesitation in Milner's voice, the outright uncertainty he'd sensed there.

 _Please let her be alright_ , please don't let it be too bad... Then another part of his mind chided him for being morbid _I'm sure it can't be that bad, Sam would charm even an illness into being nice to her._ But... He couldn't shake the fear that was settling and congealing in his stomach like poor rations. Dad wouldn't be down there if it wasn't serious.

* * *

Half-an -hour had never seemed so long, but eventually he was following the other two and bumping the wheels of the Spitfire onto the mown grass at Hastings. The routine was the same as it ever had been. Calm the throttle, roll off the airstrip, turn her down, spring the cover catch, slide it back, climb out, then jump down to the ground. A tight nod to the ground crew, many of whom he recognised. Walk across the field to the hut, where Wing Commander Turner waited at the door. Give salute, receive it, introduce the boys. See them sent off with one of the orderlies to be shown their bunks in one of the huts. Be invited in.

_Trying to cheer Sam up before he flew to Debden last year. Kissing her goodbye. That brave smile she'd had when he'd climbed into the cockpit_

Turner settled at his desk, eyes calm but sharp as ever “Report Foyle.”

Nothing to report, alright weather, rather cloudy. No Bandits sighted at all.

_Sam teasing him when they walked together._

The men? Jamison flew well, loved the planes, they loved him, good on his maths, excellent navigator, clear headed. Bennet was more of a maverick chancer, always pushing. Passable on headwork sometimes, bore watching until his overly high spirits calmed down.

Pass over the training files he'd been given and the leave-chit to be counter-signed

_Sam giving him as good as she got the day he met her, knocking him back._

Planes? Spitfires Sir, handle like a dream, barely need to fly them at all. Able to do more height and more speed. As they had heard really.

 _Sam's jolly smile, the way her eyes twinkled_. The thought of that not being there

“Foyle what is the matter with you?” Turner's voice sharpened and Andrew became aware of a piercing stare directed at him over the desk “I've never heard a duller report from a pilot, you sound like a dratted staff officer. If I didn't know you, I'd think you'd gone plane sour, but you volunteered for this flight so that can't be it”

“No, Sir.” _Sam Sam Sam, oh please._

 _“_ And stop looking out of that damned window Foyle!” He jumped slightly, redirected his gaze to nowhere as Turner shook his head and bent over the desk to write. “I can see I'm going to get nothing out of you today. Be back at 0900 for briefing on the Five you're taking back. There's your pass for eighteen hours.”

He took the piece of paper, saluted, received one in return and turned to leave.

Turner spoke from behind him “If you hurry, there was a supply lorry going to Hastings, you might be able to save yourself a walk home.”

Brief nod “Thank you Sir” Oh, he hoped his voice hadn't caught.

* * *

He caught the lorry just by the gate, hailing them, then he jumped into the empty back with a wave to the driver. Pressing against the metal back of the cab he braced against the rattles in the road, arms wrapped around his knees, staring but seeing nothing of the bare inside.

* * *

Dashing across the gravel drive he took the front stairs of St Mary's two at a time, hand slipping on the big brass knob of the inner door, clattering it shut behind him as he dashed into the entrance corridor.

He looked around frantically, left, right, _where where where? Which way to go?_

His father, turning away from a white coated doctor at the far right end of the hall

“Dad!” His run on that last few yards was more of a stumble.

“Andrew?” The pitch of confusion in his father's tone “What are you doing here?”

His words almost ran together “I flew down as soon as I could when I heard. Is it bad?”

Their eyes met, his father’s had a sharp questioning glint., Andrew grabbed at his uniform his breast pocket one handed “I'm here legally, there's the leave-chit if you want it.” He almost shoved the piece of paper into his father's hands “How is Sam? Is it bad?”

There was one of those small twitches in the corner of his father's mouth, pain in his eyes.

“Dad?”

Another small pull on the corner of the mouth, a considering tilt of the head “Well, we've managed to find some medicine that might help, but.. It's touch and go.”

_Oh God, please no_

Even in parachute practise he'd never felt so lost from the ground. Blindly his eyes found the doors at the end of the corridor, leading to the wards.

He felt his father's hand on his shoulder, nudging him onwards. “She's in the third ward on the left... sit with her, talk to her.”

He nodded mechanically, his feet stumbling along the polished floor.

She lay alone in the ward, flanked by two pairs of empty beds. Her skin was waxy pale, sheened in sweat. Even her hair seemed lank and drained of colour.

“Oh Sam...” His hand slipped over his mouth “Oh my poor darling...”

Instinctively he stepped up beside the bed, hand reaching out to take hers.

“Sir,” the authoritative, though, gentle voice of the Ward Sister checked him mid-stride “I'm afraid the Doctor asks that we don't touch her. Or be too close.”

He turned to where she now stood at the foot of Sam's bed, wimple and apron starched white.

His incomprehension, perhaps some of the pain tearing at him, must have shown for she made a small movement of her head

“That being said, I'm sure if we pushed that bed back another inch, you could sit on there quite safely.”

Sam's breathing was a hash rasp in the silence of the ward; horrible, wrong, but a sign of life, and so welcome.

_Talk to her_ , his father had said, talk to her. What could he say?

“What have you been doing to yourself Sam? What happened to taking care, hmm?” But he couldn't be jovial, the words came out choked and heartfelt “Oh Sam...”

She twitched, gasping, half moaning. He tipped his weight forwards, almost rising to go the her before he remembered the rules.

He leant forwards instead, clasping his hands into a tight stern fist and fixed his eyes on her.

“Fight it Sam, you can't be beaten like this. You've broken out of the mould of a vicar's daughter, dealt with grumpy RAF pilots with their heads up their own tails. You slapped me down neatly when you'd barely known me for two seconds, and then again when you nagged me out to tea after I'd crashed and I was beastly to you... So you do that again, stand in front of that muck that's got inside of you and tell it that it’s not wanted and it can bugger off back to where it came from...” His folded hands rapped against his legs “Because it’s not having you, you hear me Samantha Stewart? You are going to get well, you are going to be chattering my Dad's ears off when you drive him anywhere...and one day this beastly war will end and I'll be able to take you up in my Spit, just for fun, then we'll go down to the beach and I'll buy you the biggest ice-cream Tullio has for sale.” He found himself half chuckling “You don't know what you've been missing being down here in war time with all this rationing, Sam, those ice creams,” He shook his head slightly, “Never beaten.”

She lay there, no quip, just more ragged breathing. The levity went out of the situation like a stone dropping into a pond. He drew a breath, feeling it wobble in his chest

“The thing is Sam, I never was much good about thinking about the future, because I didn't really believe I'd have one, flying...” His hands steepled now, rocked on his legs as his eyes rambled over the room “And now, when I do, well, you're always in it.” He swallowed, looking at her again, then away to the floor, a physical stone suddenly in his throat. “And...” his throat was tight “I don't think...I can't make it through without you... “ He blinked, forcing the tears back even as some of them rolled loose. Steadying his breathing, or trying to “I need you Sam, I need you so much... Don't leave me, please.”

Another gasp of breath, God, he was nearly as bad as she was “I promise I'll never stop you doing anything you want to do. If you want to stand the world on its head, I'll be there at your side holding its ankles in the air...” _Rambling, Foyle, Rambling._ It sounded like one of his Tutors at Oxford He managed a proper breath in and out “Just, just live, Sam. Come back to me, to all of us.”

Spent, Andrew pressed his head down onto his clasped hands, dim memories of the church services circling slowly in his mind

_“Our Father, who art in heaven,  
hallowed be thy name;  
thy kingdom come;  
thy will be done;”_

_Please, let it be your will that she lives. If I have no credit with you Lord, she's from a family of clergy three generations back, your servants on Earth. Spare her for their sake. An only daughter they would have kept from the war, she's kind and gentle and brave, she shouldn't be taken so soon._

_Mother, Mother if you are up there somewhere, please... I've been a dreadful son since you've been gone, even more so since the War. I'll do better... I'll write and post a letter to Dad every week letting him know how I am, I promise, I'll let him know when I've got leave_ _before I turn up on the doorstep. I'll try not to complain about the bareness of the Pantry, which isn't really that bare considering everything or be cheeky about the size of the trout he catches, which are delicious. Just please, let me... let us keep Sam here._

Her breath wheezed on into the silence, in and out. In and out. Laying there so still, so unlike his Sam.

The words came low and steady, almost of their own volition.

“ _How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.  
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height  
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight  
For the ends of being and ideal grace.  
I love thee to the level of every day’s  
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.  
I love thee freely, as men strive for right.  
I love thee purely, as they turn from praise.  
I love thee with the passion put to use  
In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith.  
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose  
With my lost saints. I love thee with the breath,  
Smiles, tears, of all my life..._”

But he checked himself, the last lines were far too close to reality. He would not tempt fate, would not offer it a door or an excuse to worm its way into his life. He had to keep his head, somehow, for Sam’s sake. She never lost her head.

Slowly he began to recite again, the words rolling from further back in his mind, a prompt and a balm

“ _If you can keep your head when all about you_

_Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,_

_If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,_

_But make allowance for their doubting too;_

_If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,_

_Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,_

_Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,_

_And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:_

_If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;_

_If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;_

_If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster_

_And treat those two impostors just the same;_

_If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken_

_Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,_

_Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,_

_And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools:_

_If you can make one heap of all your winnings_

_And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,_

_And lose, and start again at your beginnings_

_And never breathe a word about your loss;_

_If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew_

_To serve your turn long after they are gone,_

_And so hold on when there is nothing in you_

_Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’_

_If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,_

_Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch,_

_If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,_

_If all men count with you, but none too much;_

_If you can fill the unforgiving minute_

_With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,_

_Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,_

_And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!_

The teacher drilled that one into us at school Sam... It's strange, it comes back to me at odd moments now, pieces that fit in the picture I find myself in. I don't even remember liking it that much at school, yet... It chimes with me now like the truest of bells.” His eyes wandered where they would “A strange world we live in Sam, when it's old things like that that mean more than many things in the papers now.”

* * *

He wasn't aware of time as he sat there on the bed, measuring it only in the dry rasps of her breath, the occasional tosses and twitches of her head. He didn't know what he rambled on about, quoting Shakespeare, Hardy, Edward Lear, anything that came into his head, even half mangled descriptions. Anything to give her something to listen to, to know that she wasn't alone, that she was wanted.

He was somewhere in the middle of “The Owl and The Pussycat” when there was an officious clicking of shoes. He didn't turn, concentrating on remembering the words. but the doctor swept to the far side of the bed, peering closely at Sam's face, then at her hand. It shook him out of the daze

“How is she? He thought he spoke aloud but they made no response, the doctor addressing the most senior nurse instead.

“We'll take no chances and give her another dose.” Only then did the doctor seem to notice him sitting there, “I'm sorry Sir, you'll have to leave.”

He looked at him eye to eye “Is she going to get better?”

The doctor tilted his head in an equivocal fashion, looking him up and down “There are no ground lines for a case such as this Sir, it very much depends on her, now please, if you would.” He gestured with his hand in a clear dismissal.

A nurse's hands on Andrew's upper arms draw him to his feet and out of the ward, back to the late afternoon light of the corridor. The nurse said something. He couldn't, didn't want to, take his eyes from the doorway

“Sir? Sir...a cup of tea Sir?”

“No, no thank you, don't waste the ration.”

_Not like I'd taste it anyway_

But the nurse stayed long enough to pat his arm “She's determined, that one. If anyone can pull through, it will be her.”

 _If, If_...

After what felt like eternity, he saw the convoy of doctor and nurses leave, waited a moment and darted back in. The Ward Sister gave him a sharp look, which modified into a softer one when he immediately sat on the bed again.

“Doctor said she was not to be disturbed, that she needs quiet and rest.”

His eyes were drawn to Sam like a flower to the sun, barely aware of what he was saying “That's alright, I'd lost my place anyway... Poor Cat and Owl, lost at sea because of my poor memory. I’ll sit with her.”

She'd have laughed at that, but the Sister only hmmed. And Sam lay there, damp with sweat, breath rasping

_Come on Sam, Come on. Come back to me_

* * *

The sun and the shadows are the only marker of time, until the Matron appeared at his shoulder “Visiting hours are over, Sir, you can come back to see your friend tomorrow.”

He drew his gaze away from Sam reluctantly and looked up at her sharp eyes, “I'm her fiancé...”

She looked him up and down.

“I only have a pass for tonight...Please...” Had her eyes softened slightly when she saw his wings?

Her lips compressed, then released, gaze snapping away to the Ward Sister “Jenkins, he's here on your recognisance. If he causes upset, turn him out.”

The nurse nodded like a junior officer taking orders might “Yes, Matron.”

Once the clipping heels had disappeared, the Sister lifted her eyes from her work, coughing to get his attention “The Sister before said you were trying poetry earlier, to help her be aware... If you are quiet, there's no reason not to carry on.”

He nodded, heaving a sigh from his boots “Thank you.”

He sat there, looking down at Sam. Was it his imagination or was her breathing easier than it had been, the sound a little clearer.

Hardy this time “ _I leant upon a coppice gate_

_When Frost was spectre-grey,_

_And Winter's dregs made desolate_

_The weakening eye of day...”_

* * *

The sun was dropping outside, the light was shifting. Maybe it was just a trick, but Sam looked slightly brighter, her colour more normal, less like one of the statues he'd seen in a museum. Somewhere in the afternoon he’d swung so he was sitting lengthways on the bed, feet dangling just off the side. “I don't know why I'm rabbiting on like this Sam, the rate my voice is going you won't be able to hear me anyway, and I might be scaring you away with all this romantic drivel, you probably can't stand Hardy, or Blake, or even Kipling.. But, well...It’s all I can do.” He shifted his weight, letting his crossed feet remain off the bed while he leant against the metal with one shoulder. His eyes roamed focusing on nothing, even as his ears listened for any change. The words tumbled from his lips, as if they had been waiting there for just this moment.

_“The instruments are a darkness, no way out is clear,_

_the stars are shadowed and shrouded, no guide to far or near._

_No going home for me tonight, to those that I hold dear._

_I fly in the middle of nowhere, no landmarks marking here._

_Then all at once, a flickering,_

_down on the ground below._

_One brave light against the darkness,_

_shining out, all aglow._

_Though the darkness strive to quench it, it doesn’t falter, though it sways._

_So plucky brave and bold that light, bracing up and saying nay_

_And on that light I make my heading, for it is as true for me as any star._

_I find on it therein a place of landing, shining brightly to the far._

_The wheels drop, yey I touch ground, and roll in safely home._

_I look for they who held the light, so bright, yet so alone._

_when I find it, still it shines, so bravely and so true_

_Who was it, my Nightingale, ah my love, twas you.”_

By the last line he was looking at her again, seeing how she lay on the pillow, eyes closed, lips moving as she mumbled something that sounded like “ooo ay”

“Sam?!” He half rolled off the bed onto his feet, stepping across the distance between them, balling his fists “Sister, she said something.” _Mustn't touch, mustn't touch. S_ he'd taken a proper breath, deeper, wobbly but clear. Her cheeks were more normal, dry surely. He bent as close as he dared “Sam…What did you say?”

“ _D_ iss no Blake” The words were spoken with emphasis, an effort at clarity despite the mumbled tone. And her eyes opened a crack, looking up at him slightly muzzily, but with awareness. On the other side of the bed the nurse was bending over, touching her forehead, her wrist.

He barely noticed, Sam was looking up at him, conscious, alive. For the first time all day, Andrew felt himself smile, a chuckle catching in his voice “No, it's not Blake, or Hardy, or Lear.”

Sam's eyes sharpened a little, focusing on him “Andrew...”

He nodded, folding his hands at his side, desperate to hold her hand, mindful that he mustn't, fidgeting back and forth “Yes Sam, it's me. I'm here...”. Two minutes ago a bombing raid wouldn't have moved him from the bed, now; now he wanted to run down the corridor, yelling his head off, take a Spit into the air and do Victory Rolls until he was dizzy. His breath caught almost in a sob, which he tried to hide in a laugh “You've no idea how worried I've been...”

“eben?” She was barely awake, concentrating hard.

“I flew down” A long moment, then her eyes narrowed. “Don't look at me like that Sam, I got permission” He found himself running his fingers through his hair wildly, “Oh drat it, look at me however you like, I love you, I'd marry you tomorrow if you'll have me...”

The doctor had arrived in double time and was bending over Sam, “Sir will you please leave, you are upsetting my patient” The glare Andrew found himself levelled with wouldn't have shamed Turner “Now, Sir!”

He stepped away, feet almost dancing, blowing her a kiss as he was herded out of the ward and forcibly stared into sitting on one of the chairs in the main hall. He was laughing now, as he had when he'd beaten the RADAR run, as he had when he'd made it under the Forth Bridge. Sam was awake, she'd made it through and she knew him, knew him enough to be concerned about leaving Debden.

“Thank you God... _Thank you_.”

* * *

It's an hour later, the sun seting, the corridor blue, when the nurse finally comes back to him “You can see her for five minutes, no more.”

The ward is a pool of golden light against the evening gloom as he enters. Sam lies there, slightly lifted by her pillow, looking towards the door. She smiles slightly as she sees him,and he can’t help but smile back.

“That was very silly Andrew, what you did.”

He shrugged, trying to make light of it “Spit needed to get here, the only thing that changed was the pilot.” He takes the chair and sets it by the bed, sitting down next to her, resting his forearms on his knees, then looked at her earnestly “Don’t do it again will you… You’ve had me worried sick all day.”

A slight laugh, her fingers playing on the cover “You know, your recall of Lear was absolutely appalling, there are only three verses to the whole thing.”

He smiled ruefully “Yes, It was rather dreadful.”

“But I’m glad you tried.”

He looked at her, seeing the tiredness, the drain this had put on her, that she bravely covered with the humour. That was Sam, always doing her best.

He stood up “Well… I’ll leave you to rest and recover.” Their eyes met again “Sleep well Sam, I love you.” _I don’t want to leave you, I want to spend the rest of my life with you, I couldn’t have borne it if I’d lost you._ So much he tried to put in those words

She smiled and settled into the pillows “Fly safely.” Sleep was already drawing her down.

He watched her for another moment before moving away, suddenly aware of how tired _he_ was.

His Father met him at the door, smiling gently “Come on, Brookie’s got the car, time for you to be home.” A long pause as they started to walk “How did you find out she was ill anyway?”

He sighed, this was always going to come up “Rang the station to tell you I’d got leave coming up soon.”

“oh…” That little quizzical rise

He shook his head “Moot point now anyway, I traded it for the seat.. the constable said something about Sam needing cheering up and I bullied the rest out of Milner.” His father frowned and he cajoled “Don’t be hard on them Dad, I have to teach, I’ve got very good at picking up nuance of tone. _‘Yes Sir I understand’_ can easily mean _‘No Sir I haven’t a clue’_ with the right inflection.”

“So the next time I’m exasperated with you… you’ll actually know.”

He threw his father a sideways look “Oh Dad, I’ve always known that one.”

"I'm glad to hear it"

**Author's Note:**

> While I have loosly attempted to make this accurate, I confess that it is emotional wish fulfillment of the highest degree. Poems quoted  
> "How do I love thee" by Elizabeth Barrett Browning (the docked lines being "and, if God choose,  
> I shall but love thee better after death"
> 
> "If" by Rudyard Kipling  
> "The Darkling Thrush" by Thomas Hardy
> 
> Andrew's poem about 'The instruments in darkness', is my own invention of 10pm last night.
> 
> Any comments, critical or otherwise greatly appreciated.


End file.
